Blink
by Cora Clavia
Summary: BB. Brennan's reaction to Booth being shot, and the rest of the case. Tie-in to "Pain in the Heart."
1. Chapter 1

**Blink**

**Summary:** OMG! OMG! Booth shot? OMGOMGOMG! - was basically my reaction.

**Rating:** T

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters or the show. I just really, really like them.

* * *

She hadn't had so much fun in years. Her face had gotten hot as she stood before the microphone and saw the faces before her, watching expectantly. But it had only taken a last look at Booth's hopeful, encouraging smile, and something inside her broke open and she grabbed the microphone and let all her inhibitions go. This was just plain _fun_.

As Pam walked in, she saw but didn't really observe. Crazy woman. She had genuine problems.

She vaguely heard the word _Seeley_, and irritation crossed her mind briefly. Excuse me. I'm ridding myself of a deep-seated fear, Pam. Go away and be creepy somewhere else.

There was movement, and Booth was standing, and then a gun, and then while her ears rang and the world cracked, he fell to the ground with red blossoming from his chest.

She had _never_ felt adrenaline like that before. The pistol was a warm, hard extension of her hand, almost a second skin as she whirled and put a bullet in the bitch's neck. She registered blood and stopped caring. That woman didn't matter. She was a horrible person and could die for all Brennan cared, because she was trying to take away the one thing that Brennan simply couldn't imagine losing.

His eyes stared through her, and she shook. This wasn't happening. All the noise around her was a dull, steady blur that buzzed through her skull and teeth and she wanted it to stop. He was looking through her. His eyes seemed hollow, not warm. She pushed desperately at the hole in his chest, trying to stop the bleeding. Blood coated her hands, warm and slick and fluid, and it couldn't be real. He was right there - right _there _- why didn't he look _at_ her?

Booth! Come on, Booth. Come on. You're going to be all right. Just stay with me.

He didn't speak, just looked up with that expression she was so afraid of - fear - looking up with eyes that didn't know quite what to do, as he leaked all over her hands and wrists, and the breath caught in her throat. He was drifting. His eyes were growing cloudy. Oh God. No, please, _no._

Don't leave me, Booth. Not like this.

She could barely get words out, not really registering what crossed her lips as she pulled him close and clutched him to her heart, as if she could keep him there by sheer force. She wanted magic, or miracles, or anything in the whole irrational world that would take the warm weight in her arms and keep him pressed tight there forever. His labored breathing rattled against her chest and the universe was so very brittle right now. No! Booth, you have to stay with me. Come on. Please.

The horrible thought crossed her mind - a world without Booth?

If someone simply double-clicked on him and clicked 'delete.' Lonely nights. No take-out. No evenings at the diner. No one to tease her until she wanted to hit him. No one she could argue with. No one to hug her when she needed to cry.

If that was to be her life, she didn't want it.

She clutched him tighter, molding herself against him until she could swear they were one being and she could breath for him, support him, heal him by will. Save him. As he had saved her, so many times.

She lowered him to the floor, trying to meet his gaze, and began to shudder, her voice cracking as words roared through her deafening, crackling mind, and maybe a few of them made it to her lips. She didn't know. She wasn't paying attention to that. Booth, please. You have to fight this. You're going to be OK. Booth, _please. _Please don't leave me. I need you. I can't live without you. Stay with me. Look at me, Booth. Please. Her eyes burned. His closed. She couldn't breathe. Oh God, no, please. No. She didn't even know what she was thinking, let alone saying.

If it ended this way - without a chance to say goodbye -

She pressed hard against his chest, the solidness of his ribcage some small comfort. But so small. Look at me. Open your eyes. You have to live.

More words crashed through her shaking mind, meaningless and hollow. Words didn't matter. Because if she had to perform this autopsy, she wouldn't want to live any more. Because she had blinked and the world had shattered into a million billion trillion razor-shards that were choking. And his eyes were still closed.

He had to live.

_Had_ to.


	2. Chapter 2

**A continuation of the first chapter. Not so much a oneshot anymore. After the season finale?? **_**Couldn't**_** let it go. Nope.**

**CRAZY much spoilers for the season finale. Consider yourself warned.**

* * *

Hospitals were too much like labs. Too sterile. In a lab, it was acceptable; necessary, even. Sterility emulated the perfect world, the world of hypothesis and theory. But living persons had no business in a world like that. _Living _persons. Messy, imperfect, _living_ ones.

Brennan took in a long breath and sat up straight. Stop it. This wasn't helping. Surgery had only started a little over an hour ago. Her stubbornness, coupled with the fact that she was his partner and well-qualified to be nearby, had resulted in her being allowed to sit outside the operating room. But she was the only one. Rebecca would be allowed, and his parents if they could come, but the other squints had simply had to accept the fact that they were not kith or kin, and consequently, Brennan would be their sole representative in the silent, motionless battle to keep their friend among the living.

Her chair was uncomfortable and ugly. The metal frame was silver and cold-looking, and the coarse sort of burlap on its upholstered parts chafed uncomfortably against her wrists. The fabric was a decrepit shade of tired yellowish brown, the type that had lived a long and unappreciated life in the main waiting room (where the other squints were right now) before being banished for its utter ugliness to this hallway, a hallway of sick white that glowed dully with a light that lit up the dark splotches on her sleeves with too much clarity.

The hallway was silent. She was very alone. A few FBI agents had hurried into the operating theater, flashing badges and muttering words that she couldn't copy or use to her own advantage, leaving her to sit outside and wonder what was happening and mentally catalogue the precise placement of the gunshot wound, the amount of blood lost, and the exact amount of blood that could have oozed through her pale fingers before there just wasn't enough left.

She shook her head slightly to clear the image. The door to the operating room opened; one of the FBI agents – she recognized him from the Hoover building, an office near Booth's – walked out, pulling out his phone, not seeming to notice her as he left the hallway at a brisk pace. She watched carefully, but caught no telling expression on his face. Nothing telling. He could have been walking out of a bank.

But a phone call meant there was _something_ to tell.

There was a certain balance to the current situation, though. She was sitting in this hideous vomit-colored chair, and he was in there. She was waiting. He was not dying. She was re-counting the 110 tiled on the floor. He was not dying. They were both breathing. Because breathing was something not-dying-people did together. So as long as she sat and waited and counted and breathed, Booth would hold his end of the equation.

The white door between them creaked open, deafening in the shallowness of the hallway. A doctor in scrubs stepped out, peeling off his surgical mask and cap as the door shut behind him.

"Dr. Brennan, I'm very sorry –"

(the rushing in her ears pounded louder into a vast roar)

"- he didn't make it."

Silence.

* * *

The next few moments were fairly hazy. The doctor had explained something, or asked her questions, or something. She didn't remember. She couldn't think. His words rattled through her ears and bounced through her skull before falling out and hitting the floor with a thud.

Booth is dead.

He died.

He's gone.

The doctor gave her a gentle, sympathetic, yet not overly invasive touch on the shoulder, before suggesting that she return to join her companions, who were being informed right now. He was very sorry for her loss.

She agreed quietly, turning back towards the waiting room with feet that trod independently. They didn't go to the waiting room. She wasn't ready to see the others yet.

She ended up in the ladies' room, which was empty. Staring at herself in the mirror, she looked blankly at the rich red across her sleeves and chest and decided not to try to wash it off. Her hands were stained. She scrubbed them quickly, water swirling with red in the sink as part of him vanished into the drain. Hands clean, she finally left the bathroom and headed for the waiting room.

The next hour passed in a blur, punctuated only by muted sobbing and a crushing hug from Angela, which was joined by the entire team. Brennan didn't cry. She hardly spoke. There didn't seem to be a point to it.

* * *

She finally managed to convince Angela that she was all right and could spend the night alone. Angela left her at her apartment, exacting a promise to call if there was _anything_ she needed or wanted.

The shower was the worst part. The last of the blood swirled down the drain in pale red tendrils that disappeared as silently as he had. Her bloody clothes were left on the washing machine, where she knew she would leave them for at least a month before being able to wash them too.

But sleep was a far-off thought. She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for hours. She couldn't focus, couldn't think of anything but three words. Those three words echoed inside her head, swarming her mind until she felt suffocated under their crushing weight. Booth is dead.

It couldn't be real.

But she had watched him bleed beneath the futile pressure of her hands. It was real.

His face haunted her. There had been real fear in those eyes. He had stared up at her with fear.

Booth is dead.

He's dead.

He's a cold body on a slab somewhere.

She got out of bed at five, after a few cloying hours of re-thinking the same three words a thousand times. It was still hard to breathe.

* * *

After quickly dressing – it seemed too easy – she got into her car and left. But she didn't go to the lab. As the clock beside the dashboard changed from 5:38 to 5:39, she turned off her engine and looked up at the windows of Booth's apartment.

He was predictable enough to have left a spare key outside, which took little effort to find. Inside, the place looked too normal. The mail was still sitting on the coffee table where he had tossed it, intending to read it later. A few dirty dishes sat neatly beside the sink, waiting to be washed. A dress shirt over the arm of a chair waited to be ironed. The television remote sat poised next to a copy of _Bone Free_. His bedroom door was half-open, revealing an unmade bed and his dress clothes from the day before thrown hastily over a chair.

Above the mantel in the living room sat a number of photos. Some showed people she didn't recognize, whom she assumed to be the Booth family. There was one of the two of them, laughing over some joke in the lab as he tugged at her arm. And one of all the squints, smiling up at a camera.

But the one beside it caught her breath.

It was Parker and his father. The boy was wearing a baseball jersey and cap, holding a leather mitt as the two of them grinned identical grins at the camera on what must have been a beautiful day.

Oh God – Parker – Parker, your father just died.

Parker's dad was dead.

Her knees buckled and her arms gave out and she crumpled to the floor. Tears burned through her eyes, stinging hotly. Her very breath seemed to seize up and choke her, the air squeezing her lungs. A violent ache hit her stomach, like a giant fist had reached inside and grabbed her intestines and twisted as hard as it could.

She cried until she was hollow and finally left, remembering to lock the door behind her.

* * *

The safe house was boring as hell. Booth was antsy, even while still sore from a hole in the chest. There was so little to do. He knew Bones was safe and unharmed – he had heckled poor, irritated Agent Jackson to the point of snapping until the man finally called Cullen and confirmed that she had escaped unhurt – but the FBI strongly discouraged placing anyone except direct blood relatives on the classified information list, so as of right now it included only Rebecca and his immediate family. But then, he reasoned uneasily, she was a strong person, wasn't she? She could handle it. And it wouldn't be long.

It still bothered him, though. He _hated_ waiting here.

Another agent, whose name he couldn't quite remember, came in with a bag of groceries the second day he was stuck in the safe house. She set down the bag and pulled out an unmarked DVD. "You know there's surveillance in your apartment?"

"Yeah." The FBI had seized the opportunity to fake his death, using it to set a trap for a particularly vicious man from his past, a criminal who would undoubtedly fall for it. Of course there were cameras around the apartment.

"All right. But I never let you see this, OK? And I need it back in half an hour." she said pointedly, setting the disc in front of him.

It was surveillance footage from the apartment, the multiple cameras appearing side by side on the TV screen. At first it was perfectly still. Then, as he fast-forwarded through several hours, the door opened and he saw the woman who walked in. She walked around blankly, appearing in different camera views, before she stopped in front of the pictures on his mantel. Booth watched as her hands shook. She collapsed to the floor, the strangled sounds of her crying echoing through the silence of the empty rooms.

As the door shut behind her, Booth stopped it and pulled out the disc, his eyes stinging.

He returned it to the agent with the groceries and headed straight for the secure phone. His message was brief: inform Dr. Sweets that Dr. Temperance Brennan is to be placed on the classified information list for Agent Seeley Booth. Immediately.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Um . . . yeah. They didn't give us the hospital-bed Mulder-Scully type BB angst I was expecting, so I snuck a hint of it in here.

I admit, I freaked out several times during the episode last night. Not the least of which was the AMAZING shout-out to Jeeves & Wooster. The rubber ducky! On the wire rack! In the bathtub! I squeed like there was no tomorrow. Yay Stephen Fry.

But OMG – she thought he was dead. For two weeks. I cannot imagine. And then she bitchslapped him. _At his_ _own funeral_. I LOVE this show.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

**Part 3 - this is pretty much a companion to various scenes from "Pain in the Heart"**

* * *

Booth had imagined his dramatic resurrection with quite a bit more dignity. The crisp, sharp uniform, white gloves, polished rifle. The rush of success as he caught the criminal. The glowing look of admiration on Bones' face, followed by one of those smiles that never failed to light up the room. Maybe a hug, followed by a quiet walk together back to her car (in which she would gravely acknowledge his sacrifice that had saved her life), and then maybe a piece of pie at the diner before they returned to the lab, surrounded by the other squints, and he recounted the harrowing tale of his escape from the hospital.

But not quite.

The uniform was perfect, his rifle perfectly polished. But the chase to catch the uninvited man had been a little less dignified than he had hoped. The dummy corpse just wasn't a very awe-inspiring weapon. And Bones' shock had quickly melted into efficient effort as she helped him take the man out. OK, not optimal, but still pretty good. She was like that, after all.

But as he caught his breath and prepared for the warm hug he'd been awaiting for two weeks, Booth was startled to see that her face was markedly _not_ smiling. Or tense with quivering, breathless emotion. Her fist met his face in a hell of a good punch, knocking him back on his ass as she stormed off, angry as he'd ever seen her.

That was not quite the way he'd expected his funeral to be.

* * *

She hadn't wanted to go to the funeral. That would mean leaving the lab. She had left the lab ten times in the past thirteen days, finding herself sleeping in her office, washing in the decontamination showers, and working until she was physically ready to drop. She was up to her eyes in skeletons and artifacts, tackling project after project until she almost couldn't read her own notes. She just couldn't bring herself to stop. Stopping meant there was time to think. Thinking brought her back to the fact that her best friend was dead.

But Angela wouldn't take no for an answer, so all too soon, Brennan found herself standing before the casket, staring at the flowers on top and hating them. Not really comprehending that the body inside the gleaming wooden surface was the one that had held her so many times when she had simply needed to let herself cry. It wasn't real. But it was. But it couldn't be.

How could Booth's caring, loving, personal God let this happen?

She saw motion as a man walked towards the casket, someone she didn't recognize. There was commotion, something stirring among the Army men waiting for the 21-gun salute. Something was wrong.

Then she recognized the face of one of the soldiers. Wearing a uniform she had never seen him wear. But the face was unmistakable.

A ghost?

The wild notion fluttered through her mind before she could stop it. It was no ghost. It was _him_.

After they stopped the man who had walked to the casket, he turned to face her squarely. Something twisted in her stomach, something violent that was exhausted and sore from sleeping alone on a couch. Something that knew he hadn't been sleeping on a couch for two weeks. He hadn't spent two weeks in hell.

Damn him.

With a blaze of anger that frightened her, she stepped forward and punched him, her fist connecting squarely with his face in a resounding thud that knocked him to the ground. She walked away, refusing to let him see her while she felt as if her chest were about to fly apart and float up and her veins bubbled with a mixture of champagne and light and fierce anger. She wanted to break pencils. Or throw something. Because if she didn't, she was afraid, the ache in her stomach would catch in her throat and she was going to cry again. Because she hadn't done that since the early morning in his empty apartment.

And she had _no_ intention of letting him know just how horrible her life had been while he was dead.

* * *

Her angry protests - he had been alive, but she had not been told, and she was furious in her utter relief - were cut short by the arrival of the jawbone. Everything else fell by the wayside as the team realized that the serial killer was back. And she managed to compartmentalize for a while, since she had done it for the last few weeks. It was a talent.

But there came a point at which she decided they needed to talk about it. This needed resolution. She needed to vent, and he needed to understand why this was a big problem. He had gone home, so she followed, found the spare key she had used the day after his "death," and let herself in. A cursory search revealed nothing, but she heard music in the bathroom and opened the door, to reveal Booth in the bathtub with a cigar, a rubber duck, a helmet with two cans of beer attached to it, and a stunned face.

He had spent two weeks – two weeks of hell that had driven her into a dark hole she'd had so little chance of escaping – just sitting around. Sitting there _living_. While she had buried herself from the world and taken a hundred steps backward, almost sinking back into the shadowy pit with the corpses she studied, Booth had relaxed and done nothing. He had used a hat to drink beer.

She almost hated him.

The thoughts shot through her mind in an instant, as her gaze fell on the rubber duck sitting on the tray in front of him. Then she snapped. She had been trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the sight of that cheery, colorful toy seemed to mock her. As if the last two weeks had been some huge joke.

He seemed taken aback, and not just by her presence beside his bathtub. He was surprised that she refused to let it go. Did she want him to find out why she wasn't told?

You don't _get_ it, Booth! This wasn't just some clerical error. I thought you were dead. For two _weeks_. Do you know what that's like? I can't just forget about it. I've never been so miserable. Why don't you understand? Yes, I want you to find out. I want it to matter. I want you to care that I was in shock when the doctor told me you didn't make it. I want it to _matter_ that I broke down in front of your pictures because I thought your son had lost his father because of _me_. That I hated myself and wished I had been the one who died.

Her anger began to fall apart as he quietly agreed to find out and picked up a comic book. A comic book? Really? She knew he was an intelligent man, more so than he cared to betray. Booth's reaching for a comic book was a sign that maybe he'd been more affected by this than she'd thought. If he found solace in allegorical young adult literature about superheroes with exaggerated abilities and mostly happy endings, then maybe she had read it wrong. Maybe he needed that solace right now.

She had fled to the cool sanctity of science; he, to the world where beings in capes kept people safe. Wasn't that _his_ job?

Maybe she could forgive a mistake. It really wasn't his fault.

So she turned the music back on as she left, cringing as she considered how badly she must have scratched the record in her haste to break in and yell at him. I'm sorry, Booth. I didn't think. I'm not used to seeing people come back from the dead.

* * *

The end of the case unfolded like a blurry, distorted mural, that slowly came into focus, even when she realized what was coming and tried to stop it. Zach? Oh, Zach . . . _how?_

She had trouble understanding that it was true. Even though she was the one who had pieced it together. He lay there, so fragile with his mutilated shreds of hands wrapped in gauze, but the things he had done . . .

As they left the hospital room, she shivered. How many times could the world shatter? Wasn't it reaching its limit?

* * *

The gathering seemed almost like a funeral. No one cried, but everyone felt close to it. Brennan watched, slightly detached, as the team plucked objects from the box of Zach's possessions and told stories. It was a memorial service. For a brilliant young man who had, somehow, gone so horribly wrong. Whose professional life was over, before it had begun in earnest, because he had been led astray by the depth of his own mind.

How ironic - this whole case had begun with Booth's funeral. Now it ended with them holding one for Zach.

And it burned her to see that among all the silly, thoughtful, or interesting gifts the others had given Zach, there was no gift from her. Not even the most meaningless trinket to let him know how much she had respected and valued him. Nothing. As if he'd been just another someone smart who didn't matter.

She just couldn't be near the others right now. Her mind was about to implode from pressure. She needed air. The steps were a welcoming, lonesome place to sit and soak in her own worthlessness and helplessness.

Of course Booth found her. And knew exactly what to say. As he folded the letter, she could feel her eyes burning, but instead of tightening her jaw to stop the tears, she gave up and let them fall, leaning against him. He stole an arm around her shoulders, and she let herself fall limply against him. The long, pent-up breath she'd been holding since discovering Zach's ominous mistake slowly left her lungs, and the cold, tight misery began to dissolve. She just wanted to be held. It made no sense, and maybe she should still be angry at Booth, but honestly, it just didn't matter so much now. He was here and alive and warm, and that was what she really needed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Epilogue: Post-episode**

* * *

As Brennan finally got home - the day had never seemed to end, and had only spiraled down - she dropped her purse, locked the door behind her, and stood still. She had no idea what to do. What was one supposed to do after the revelation that she had been a mentor to a murderer? How did people cope with that kind of emptiness?

Well, Booth had used a beer helmet and bathtub to distance himself from the trauma of pretending to die. He seemed to have gotten through it.

So she took a hot bath, sucking in a long breath as she stepped into the frothy, scalding water. The shock of its temperature hit her skin in a refreshingly physical pain, after all she had gone through the past few weeks, that melted into a relaxing tingle. The water was soothing, a cathartic, cleansing freshness that almost washed away the stain on her mind. She sat motionless for so long, eyes closed, letting the steam caress her cheeks and wishing today had never happened.

Eventually she stepped from the bath, stopping to look at herself curiously in the mirror before reaching for a towel. Heavy eyes stared back at her, out of place in a flushed face that looked surprisingly girlish and confused. Her skin was pink from the bath, slick with water, and her hair looked darker than usual, damp and curly from the humidity. She had lost weight recently, but other than that, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. So normal. Deceptively so. There should be something missing. I can't really be whole. After I failed Zach so miserably. He trusted me. Surely I could have done something. I should have stopped this. This is my fault.

She pulled on pajamas and curled up on the couch, a book at her side, despite the fact that she had no intention of actually reading it. Physically she felt a hundred times better, but the ache in her throat wouldn't leave and she still just didn't know what to do. Hugging her knees to her chest, she stared at the floor blankly.

The knock at her door came as no surprise. Nor did the man who opened it after a few seconds. He still had a key from back a few months ago, a day she had needed him to stop and pick something up. Booth walked in quietly, shutting the door behind him. He met her eyes silently, his gaze probing, searching out all the lines and shadows around her eyes that she had managed to hide from most people. Her gaze faltered beneath his; she knew that he knew just how very fragile she was right now. He said nothing, knowing that she didn't want to talk right now. She bit her lip. He walked over, sitting beside her gently, and wordlessly wrapped his arms around her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. He had a habit of shielding her from the world when she needed it. Booth was warm and solid and masculine, and as his heart beat gently beneath her ear, her body loosened against his and she let out a long, shuddering sigh. The tears she had let fall earlier were long gone. She was too drained to cry. Too tired to think. But she could feel the painful tightness leave her chest.

"You okay?" he murmured. She nodded wordlessly, her hair rustling against his chest. He understood her real answer: No. But I will be. "Is there anything you need?"

"I'm just tired." Dead tired. Physically and mentally exhausted. Worn from having tragedies dropped onto her shoulders.

"You should try to sleep." It's okay, Bones. I'll be Atlas for a while. You've had to hold up the world for too long.

She nodded again, not seeing the need to expend energy by talking. He was right. Her body had begun to shut down, signaling her that it was time to stop. There was nothing more she could do.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

* * *

After a few minutes, he convinced her that sleeping in bed, as opposed to on the couch, would be much more comfortable. She went willingly, letting him push her gently towards her bedroom as he turned off the lights and locked the front door.

Her bed was more welcoming than usual tonight. She pushed back the covers and settled down, waiting patiently, and sure enough, Booth came in after her, pulling off his jacket. Kicking off his shoes, he joined her, pulling her back against his broad chest and running a hand absently through her hair.

Suddenly it hit her - this was what she had almost lost.

She couldn't imagine how she would have made it through any of this without him.

She felt him take in a long breath, his chest rising beneath her. "I'm sorry I didn't call you. I should have made sure you knew I was alive."

"It's all right. You didn't know."

"I'm sorry you had to spend two weeks like that."

She took a long breath and let her head settle more comfortably against his shoulder. "I'm just glad I was wrong."

"Me too."

They fell silent, and soon his even breathing told her that he was asleep. Asleep, and alive. Two very good things to be.

Brennan decided that all things considered, she could apologize to Booth's God now. She had judged Him unfairly, since she didn't have all the facts. The Heavenly Helicopter Pilot was full of surprises, it seemed.

And Booth?

Maybe she shouldn't have hit him quite so hard. It was his own funeral, after all.

* * *

**FINIS**


End file.
